Who taught that heav'n-directed spire to rise?
"The Man of Ross," each lisping babe replies.
Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread!
The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread
He feeds yon' almshouse, neat, but void of state, 265
Where Age and Want sit smiling at the gate :
Him portion'd maids, apprentic'd orphans, blest
The young who labour, and the old who rest.
any
sick? The Man of Ross relieves,
Prescribes, attends, the med'cine makes and gives.
Is there a variance? enter but his door,
Baulk'd are the courts, and contest is no more:
Despairing quacks with curses fied the place,
And vile attorneys, now an useless race.
B. Thrice happy Man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the pow'r to do!
Oh! say what sums that gen'rcus hand supply?
What mines to swell that boundless charity?
P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children, clear, This Man possess'd-five hundred pounds a-year. Blush, Grandeur! blush; proud Courts! withdraw your blaze;
Ye little stars! hide your diminish'd rays.
B. And what? no monument, inscription, stone, His race, his form, his name, almost unknown? P. Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame, never mark the marble with his name.
Go search it there, where to be born and die
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough that virtue fill'd the space between,
Prov'd by the ends of being to have been.
When Hopkins dies a thousand lights attend
The wtetch who living sav'd a candle's end:
Should'ring God's altar a vile image stands,
Belies his features, nay, extends his hands;
That live-long wig, which Gorgon's self might own,
Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.
Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend!
And see what comfort it affords our end.
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung,
The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,
On once a flock-bed, but repair'd with straw,
With tape-ty'd curtains, never meant to draw,
The George and Garter dangling from that bed
Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,
Great Villiers lies-alas! how chang'd from him,
That life of pleasure and that soul of whim!
Gallant and gay, in Cliveden's proud alcove,
The bow'r of wanton Shrewsbury and Love;
Or just as gay at council, in a ring
Of mimic'd statesmen and their merry king
No wit to flatter, left of all his store!
No fool to laugh at, which he valu'd more;
There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends,
And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends!
His Grace's fate sage Cutler could foresee,
And well (he thought) advis'd him, "Live like me."
As well his Grace reply'd, "Like you, Sir John?
"That I can do when all I have is gone!"
Resolve me, Reason, which of these is worse,
Want with a full or with an empty purse?
Thy life more wretched, Cutler was confess'd;
Arise and tell me, was thy death more bless'd?
Cutler saw tenants break and houses fall;
For very want he could not build a wall.
His only daughter in a stranger's pow'r ;
For very want he could not pay a dow'r.
A few gray hairs his rev'rend temples crown'd;
'Twas very want that sold them for two pound.
What! ev'n deny'd a cordial at his end,
Banish'd the doctor, and expell'd the friend?
What but a want which you perhaps think mad,
Yet numbers feel the want of what he had!
Cutler and Brutus dying, both exclaim,
"Virtue! and Wealth! what are ye but a name!"
Say, for such worth are other worlds prepar'd?
Or are they both in this their own reward?
A knotty point! to which we now proceed.
But you are tir'd-I'll tell a tale-B. Agreed.
P. Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies,
There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,
A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;
His word would pass for more than he was worth.
One solid dish his week-day meal affords,
An added pudding solemniz'd the Lord's:
Constant at church and 'Change: his gains were sure;
His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.
The Devil was piqu'd such saintship to behold,
And long'd to tempt him like good Job of old;
But Satan now is wiser than of yore,
And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Rous'd by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep
The surge, and plunge his father in the deep;
Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,
And two rich shipwrecks bless the lucky shore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,
He takes his chirping pint and cracks his jokes.
"Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word;
And, lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board.
Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,
And honest factor stole a gem away:
He pledg'd it to the Knight; the Knight had wit,
So kept the di'mond, and the rogue was bit.
Some scruple rose, but thus he eas'd his thought, 365
"I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat;
"Where once I went to church I'll now go twice→→
"And am so clear too of all other vice!"
The Tempter saw his time, the work he ply'd;
Stocks and subscriptions pour on ev'ry side,
Till all the dæmon makes his full descent
In one abundant show'r of cent. per cent.
Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole,
Then dubs Director, and secures his soul.
Behold, Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit, Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit; What late he call'd a blessing now was wit, And God's good providence a lucky hit. Things change their titles as our manners turn; His compting-house employ'd the Sunday morn: 381 Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life)
But duly sent his family and wife.
There (so the devil ordain'd) one Christmas-tide
My good old lady catch'd a cold and dy'd.
A nymph of quality admires our Knight;
He marries, bows at court, and grows polite;
Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the fair)
The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air :
First for his son a gay commission buys,
Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies: 390
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